


Taking Chances

by thecarlysutra



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Detectives, Drinking, F/M, M/M, Private Investigators, sexual healing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-05 17:14:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: SUMMARY:When private investigator Tom Kazansky takes on a cheating husband case, he gets more than he bargained for.AUTHOR’S NOTES:Written for the top_gun_kink prompt “I want some Alternate Universe. Ice/Maverick. Pulpy, film noir type of shit. Can be tongue in cheek or serious, whatever. PrivateEye!Iceman. xD”





	Taking Chances

  
Tom sat behind his desk and watched Ron move out the last boxes of his things. 

“I can give you a hand,” Tom said for a third time, though he doubted he had the energy to leave his chair.

Ron shook his head, grunting slightly as he hoisted up a box, lifting from his back, Tom noticed, not his knees. “Thanks, but I got it.”

Tom massaged his temple. “You don’t have to leave.”

Ron froze, halfway out the door, and gave Tom a long look.

“Listen,” he said gently, “part of being broken up is not seeing that person every day.”

“It’s just work,” Tom said, and then flinched at the raw note in his voice. “We’re a good team.”

Ron shifted the carton; Tom had warned him about overpacking the boxes, but he hadn’t listened. “If you’re worried about the competition, I’m sorry—”

“It’s not that. The town can always use another private eye. Especially someone as talented as you.” Tom lowered his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll do great on your own.”

“Thanks. And you’ll be fine on your own, Tom. Really.”

Tom’s jaw set hard, his cheeks sucking in. 

“I did fine a lot of years before you came along,” Tom said, the words sharp and coming before Tom could stop them.

A blush washed over Ron, starting, as it always did, at his ears. Tom felt a pang of regret in his gut.

Ron readjusted his grip on the box, and nodded slowly, a response to a question no one had asked.

“I’ll see ya,” he said, and left.

Tom sat for a long time, listening to the silence, looking at the other half of the office: the empty desk and the empty shelves and the empty filing cabinet. Finally, he slid open the bottom drawer of his own desk and pulled out the dusty bottle of Dewar’s. It had been a gift from a client—there was still a shiny, red bow wrapped around its neck—and it had never been opened.

Well. Better now than never.

***

It was just after noon and Tom was pretty well smashed. His head swam pleasantly, and he rested it against the well-worn leather of his chair, where he slumped, loose-limbed. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the fog wrapping gently around him.

“Mr. Kazansky? Mr. Kazansky?”

Tom startled awake, sliding in his chair a little. There was a kind of golden haze standing before his desk; he blinked it into focus as he sat up properly.

The haze turned out to be a woman: blonde, good looking if you were into that kind of thing, dressed in a way that showed her politics (conservative), her financial situation (loaded), and her legs (shapely). 

“Are you Mr. Kazansky?” she asked.

Tom tried to blink the light out of his eyes; his head throbbed. 

“We’re closed,” he said, and got up to shut the blinds.

The woman looked behind her, to the door with _Thomas Kazansky, Private Investigator_ written on it.

“The door was open,” she said.

“Housekeeping error,” Tom said. He sat back down in his chair, and began pawing through his desk drawers for aspirin. He looked up and found the woman still standing there, and he sighed. “What can I do for you, Miss—?”

“Blackwood. Charlotte Blackwood.” She looked at him for a long moment, brow furrowed. “You’re Mr. Kazansky?”

“I am.” Tom smiled, finding a bottle of aspirin nestled behind a box of staples. He popped off the cap and upended the bottle over his empty hand; nothing fell out. He sighed, and threw the empty bottle in the trash. “What can I do for you, Miss Blackwood?”

“Oh, well, Mr. Kazansky, you come very highly recommended.” 

“Thank you.”

“I hear you’re very good. And very discreet.”

“That’s the ‘private’ part.”

“I—yes. Well, I need discretion.”

“What’s the problem, Miss Blackwood?”

“I believe my fiancé is cheating on me. I’d like proof, one way or the other, before the nuptials.”

Tom sighed. He was so fucking tired of cheaters. “Why don’t you just talk to him, Miss Blackwood? Or, hell, if you can’t trust him to keep his dick to himself, don’t marry him.”

Miss Blackwood’s mouth pursed. “Respectfully, Mr. Kazansky, that’s my own goddamn business.”

Tom laughed; she’d surprised him. “Okay, fair enough. Why do you think he’s cheating?”

“The usual reasons, I suppose: he comes home late, or not at all, giving me poor excuses; our own love life has . . . waned. Mr. Kazansky, I stand to inherit a great deal of money, and I love my fiancé, but part of me wonders—”

“If he really loves you.” Tom sighed. He took out a pad and pen. “Tell me about your fiancé. I’ll take the case.”

***

Blackwood’s fiancé was one Peter Mitchell, some silver spoon playboy who was occasionally in the local tabloids for things like riding his motorcycle naked down Main Street. He had an _in name only_ vice presidency at his father’s brokerage firm. Tom waited for him there, watching the building from behind his tinted windows. A lot of men in suits and women in nylons went in and out, and Tom’s eyes were just beginning to glaze over when he saw Mitchell leaving the building, tugging his tie off before the door behind him had even had time to swing shut. 

Tom started his car up, and then followed Mitchell’s motorcycle onto the freeway. He waited in the car, parked a few houses away, while Mitchell went into the house he shared with Blackwood and changed into jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Tom then followed Mitchell downtown, where he watched from the bar while Mitchell had dinner alone, paying more for a steak than Tom usually spent on his groceries for the month. Tom was getting bored, because surveillance was boring 99 percent of the time, and he was beginning to suspect that Mitchell wasn’t cheating, he was just disinterested. 

And then Mitchell collected his bike from the valet, and rode it to one of the more expensive clubs in the nicer—straight—section of downtown. Tom followed him in. The place was dark and close, the furniture slick and modern, the patrons expensively dressed. Tom frowned, and slipped through the crowd to a table in the back; his outdated, mid-priced suit made him stand out in this place. Though, truth be told, Mitchell stood out here, too. Tom watched him as he sat at the bar and ordered a beer and a shot. Mitchell’s outfit wasn’t what Tom expected for someone in the man’s tax bracket: there was a hole in the seat of his jeans, and his bomber looked like it had been run over by a car. Still, it seemed to suit him—his cocky, self-satisfied smile; his confident stride. Tom could see what Blackwood liked about the man: he was attractive in a wholesome, All American way, if a little short, and he exuded confidence and charisma. He had a nice ass, Tom thought, examining it as Mitchell reached over the bar for a napkin, watching the muscles flex beneath the tight denim. And a nice smile, when he dropped the smug smirk and actually smiled, with amusement and teeth. 

And then Tom realized, with a sudden and terrible clarity, that he was attracted to the man.

The thought made him feel slightly sick, and he ordered a drink to soothe his nerves, even though his head still hurt from the bottle of Dewar’s that morning, even though he was on a case. Tom sipped his vodka, letting the sharp, cold alcohol filter past his teeth and burn down into his belly, and concentrated on calming himself down. It wasn’t a big deal: he wasn’t made of stone, for Christ’s sake, and he did get attracted to men. Usually not men he was supposed to be surveilling, but these things did happen.

Add into that the fact that it had been over two months since he’d had sex, and, well, it was completely understandable.

The girl sitting next to Mitchell at the bar raised her glass to him, giggling. She was sexy in a plasticky, ’90s way that didn’t appeal to Tom at all, but on the whole women didn’t appeal to Tom, so what did he know. In any event, Mitchell seemed to like her; he raised his beer in response and showered her with a toothy smile. 

Tom was getting tired of waiting, and he was frustrated with himself and frustrated with the job. He just wanted this shit over with. He decided, uncharacteristically, to forgo the cautious, slow and steady approach. He could listen to Mitchell flirt with the Barbie at the bar, and then he could go home and get away from this stupid, overpriced club and this stupid, frustrating attraction.

Tom settled onto the barstool beside Mitchell. He finished his drink, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as he set it on the brushed steel of the bar. He kept his eyes on the empty glass as he listened to the girl talking. But she wasn’t talking to Mitchell; she was talking to the bartender, asking for another shot to celebrate her engagement.

“—and I can’t believe this stupid traffic, my friends should all have been here _forever_ ago, and I can’t wait to show them the ring—did I show you my ring?”

Tom sighed; he had obviously backed the wrong horse. Great. A great ending to a great day.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to come over here.”

Tom looked up. Mitchell was looking at him, and smiling. “Huh?”

Mitchell’s smile grew into a grin. “You’ve been watching me all night.”

Tom felt like he’d taken a punch to the gut. He’d been made; he couldn’t believe he’d been so careless. He started to leave, but then Mitchell reached out and put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m flattered. Come on, sit back down; I’ll buy you a drink.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. What the hell kind of detective was he, if he couldn’t even figure out his mark was gay? Tom’s mind raced. This could only end badly. It was stupid, reckless, and unprofessional, and every little voice in Tom’s head screamed at him to leave. But the way Mitchell was looking at him made butterflies flutter in his stomach, and he hadn’t felt like that in a long time.

He sat back down.

Mitchell was looking at him expectantly. “So . . . ?”

“So, what?”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re drinking, or should I guess?”

Tom blushed. “Oh. I, uh—it’s a Stoli. On the rocks.”

Mitchell flagged down the bartender. “Stoli, rocks, and another boilermaker,” he said, without taking his eyes off Tom. His gaze trailed slowly over Tom’s face; he licked his lips. “You know, you’re cute as hell when you blush.”

Tom blushed darker. Mitchell laughed, eyes sparkling.

“I’m Pete,” he said.

A surge of panic hit him; he hadn’t thought up a cover. But then, he realized, he didn’t want to give some fake alias; he didn’t want Mitchell calling him by some other man’s name. 

“Tom,” he said.

“Tom,” Mitchell repeated, stretching the word out like he enjoyed the shape of it in his mouth. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” The bartender set their drinks in front of them. Tom raised his glass, and Mitchell clinked it gently with his shot glass. “Thanks for the drink.”

Mitchell downed his whiskey, flinching in a way that crinkled up his nose and made Tom grin into his glass. “You’re welcome. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

“It’s not really my scene.”

“Oh, yeah? What is your scene?”

Warning bells were going off in Tom’s head; he should not be giving away information about himself. But he didn’t want to lie; he didn’t want Pete to know some character he’d invented. 

He would call Miss Blackwood tomorrow and tell her he couldn’t take her case.

“I usually go to the gay clubs. I just . . . I don’t know, I just feel safer that way.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Someone suggested it to me.”

Mitchell smiled. “Lucky me.” 

Tom blushed again. Mitchell rested his hand atop Tom’s on the bar. “Am I coming on too strong?”

“No,” Tom said. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I haven’t done this in a really long time.”

“Why not?”

Maybe it was the liquor loosening his tongue. Or maybe he’d just gone fucking crazy. But the words poured out before Tom could stop them. “I just got out of a long-term relationship, and so I . . . it’s been a long time since I met someone new.”

“How long-term?”

“Four years.”

Mitchell whistled, low. “Man. What happened?”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. We had problems, I guess, and I thought we would deal with them by . . . I don’t know, counseling or something, and he thought we would deal with them by sleeping with other people.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” He shook his head. “You know what I do remember about dating? You’re not supposed to bring your ex up on the first date. I’m sorry.”

Mitchell laughed. “That’s okay. We can talk about my painful childhood next, if you’d like.”

Tom smiled sheepishly. “I promise to be better company from now on.”

Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “And if you’re not?”

Mitchell’s hand was still on Tom’s, his thumb rubbing little circles over the bones of Tom’s wrist. 

“Well,” Tom said slowly, over the rush of adrenaline rising up in his chest, “I guess you’ll have to take me home and punish me.” He bit his lip. “Was that too forward?”

Mitchell grinned. “Just my speed.”

***

Tom left the bar a little drunk on vodka, and a lot drunk on Mitchell. It had been years since he’d felt like this about someone, exhilarated and hopeful and _hungry_. They stood outside the bar, breath fogging up the air, while Mitchell hailed a cab. Tom couldn’t help himself—Mitchell looked so lovely in the moonlight, and his head was swimming with liquor and lust. He pulled Mitchell against him and kissed him, hard, his hands circling around Mitchell’s waist, holding them together.

A cab pulled up beside them, and Mitchell gently separated them. He looked a little nervous, and Tom felt shame like kickback; Mitchell was engaged, and not out, besides, and they were not in a very friendly neighborhood.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said softly.

Mitchell cupped Tom’s face in his hand, ran the pad of his thumb over Tom’s cheek. “It’s okay. Just save it ’til we get home, all right?”

They got into the cab, sitting close in the dark backseat.

“Can we go to your place?” Mitchell asked. 

Tom was reminded, suddenly, that Mitchell was cheating on his fiancé, that Mitchell was cheating on his fiancé _with him_. He was the other woman. Man. Whatever.

And then Mitchell leaned in, and kissed him, and Tom’s anxiety dropped away. He gave the cab driver his address.

***

Mitchell had only given him that one kiss, nervous even in the relative anonymity of the taxi. But he had taken Tom’s hand, and held it the long ride out to Tom’s place. By the time they arrived, Tom felt charmed; it was so old-fashioned and romantic, and it made Tom feel wanted in a way he hadn’t in a long time.

Mitchell followed Tom inside. Tom’s place was small, and clean, and it was all his, and usually he was proud as hell of it, but it was nothing compared with the house he had followed Mitchell to earlier that afternoon, and when Mitchell spent a long, silent minute looking around, Tom felt uncharacteristically self-conscious.

Finally, Mitchell said, “How long’s he been gone? Your ex.”

And Tom realized what had given Mitchell pause: Ron had packed up his things and left, but Tom had yet to rearrange things to fill the resulting voids. 

“He moved out the last of his things earlier this week, but he left a couple weeks—almost a month—ago.”

Mitchell rested his hand on the back of Tom’s neck, his fingers working gently over the knots of Tom’s spine. Tom’s eyes squeezed shut, and he let out a small moan.

“Where’s the bedroom?”

They undressed each other before they got to the bed. They took their time, fingers trailing over skin as it was exposed, mouths coming together. Once they were both standing there naked, they took a long moment just looking at one another. Tom felt himself flushing as Mitchell’s eyes ran over him, but not from embarrassment. It had been so long since he’d been looked at with desire, and nothing else: not desire and resentment, or desire and disappointment, or—the worst—desire and pity. Tom felt wanted, and he wanted Mitchell in return, and nothing beyond that mattered.

Tom made down the bed, and slipped under the covers. Mitchell just looked at him for a moment, a quiet smile on his lips, before joining him. 

He and Ron hadn’t shared a bed for a long time before Ron had finally moved out. Mitchell’s thigh pressed against his, warm and firm, and Tom was surprised at just how touched he was by simple proximity.

“So,” he asked, “was I okay company?”

Mitchell grinned. “Why? Do you want me to punish you?”

Tom shook his head. “No.”

Mitchell kissed him. “What do you want?”

Tom turned away from him. He found the condoms and lube in the bedside table, and for a moment held them, the familiar weight in his hands, his back to Mitchell. The last time with Ron, he had known about the affairs; he was a fucking detective, for Christ’s sake, even if it had taken him a shamefully long time to look at the evidence and admit to himself the obvious conclusion. Ron had apologized, practically begging for forgiveness, and Tom had agreed, in a weak moment, to try and work things out. Ron would stop, and things could go back to normal. 

Only they didn’t go back to normal. They were never alone anymore; it was always Tom, and Ron, and the specters of the men Ron had been fucking. Tom knew some of them, their names, their faces. He had followed them to work and run their arrest records, their financial reports. He had watched them go jogging and buy coffee and play with their children, and none of it had made so much as one fucking step toward answering the question that kept Tom up nights: what was so lacking in him that Ron had to go somewhere else?

The last night together, Ron had tried. He’d made dinner, and bought wine, and lit candles. Tom had had almost the entire bottle of wine, because he couldn’t stand this fucking feeling in his chest anymore, and he had stumbled into bed after Ron, dizzy, his emotions wild and bright-burning, not soothed away by the alcohol. Ron had been sweet to him, teasing him gently, holding him close, but Tom swore he didn’t smell like himself, and he flipped through the mental Rolodex of possibilities for whose cologne Ron smelled like. 

He’d pushed Ron away. “I can’t do this.”

Ron had been amused. “Geez, Tom.” He’d rubbed at Tom’s erection. “You’re not that drunk, I can tell—”

And Tom had pushed him again, harder this time. “No. I mean it’s over.” 

Tom turned back to Mitchell. He handed him the condoms and the lube. Tom had been accused, many times, of being a control freak, and usually he was on top in bed. But tonight he just wanted to surrender; he wanted to hand the reins to someone else and just ride sensation.

“I want you to take care of me,” he said softly.

Mitchell placed the condoms and the lube on the mattress by his pillow, and he took Tom in his arms. He leaned him back, so that Tom’s alcohol giddy head swam, and he kissed him. Tom saw stars. Mitchell lay Tom down beneath him, his body settling comfortably over Tom’s. He kissed him again, kissed him breathless. They broke apart slowly; Mitchell found Tom’s gaze and held it.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said.

Tom let him.  



End file.
